


Two Hundred and Sixty Four Sunrises

by videogames



Category: Mara Dyer, One Direction (Band), The Mara Dyer series (Books)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Love, Mara Dyer trilogy, Noah Shaw - Freeform, Pining, The Evolution of Mara Dyer, The Retribution of Mara Dyer, The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/videogames/pseuds/videogames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Grey and Noah Shaw. Every cliché Nicholas Sparks novel you've ever read compacted into 6,000 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Did You Give Me to Make My Heart Beat Out My Chest?

**Author's Note:**

> **A bit of a preface:**[harrybirthdaytoya](http://harrybirthdaytoya.tumblr.com/) is administering a writing support group under the url writewithmesohappily. First challenge: 5,000 words in a week. This is what I came up with.
> 
> This is based off the Mara Dyer trilogy by Michelle Hodkin. The main character is my own original character, not Mara Dyer, but a lot of the characteristics and background information that apply to the series are the same. A few minor details might not make much sense if you haven't read the books, but it shouldn't be too confusing. I also tried to adopt the writing style of the author (first person and past tense), just to make it even more dimensional.  
> Anyway, this was written in a week and I didn't have as much time as I would've liked to polish it, so I apologize for any grammatical mistakes. If it's a bit shit and a little cheesy, oops. Happy reading!  
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer: I, in no way, intend any offence whatsoever to Michelle Hodkin, nor do I claim any of the ideas or concepts found in her series as my own. This is a work of fiction based off a work of fiction written entirely for my own purposes. ******

I'd seen two-hundred and sixty-four sunrises whilst sat atop Croyden's roof. Today, another dreary Monday, the early morning sky was a muted blue-grey, paled by the whisper of baby white clouds interwoven with misty patches of fog. It was beautiful—always beautiful, especially in the mornings, when the sun had yet to rise—but I'd seen two-hundred and sixty-four suns rising, painting the sky, and never did I imagine there'd come a time when my shallow breath wasn't stolen relentlessly from my lungs by the softly burning glow of the sun lifting its heavy lids over the black horizon and looking down on the world. 

Yet there I was, alone on the roof—my roof—watching my two-hundred and sixty-fifth sunrise and thinking nothing of it. 

Unlike the pastel pink and watery blue that painted the six o'clock sky, no matter how many times I saw him, Noah Shaw never failed to take my breath away.


	2. As the Winter Winds Litter London with Lonely Hearts

If people were seasons, I'd have been winter. It was cold this morning, crisp chill stealing the air biting at my thighs and arms through my shirt. My bones felt exposed, like I was a skeleton sat with my knees drawn to my chest and my hair whipping around my face, and I liked it. 

I didn't wear a jacket, nor trousers, though the mandatory Croyden uniform came with both. Abiding by the rules was never a strong suit of mine, as any teacher I'd come in contact with in my year at Croyden could easily elaborate on. Today, the usually quarter-length sleeves of my white wrinkled-beyond-repair dress shirt were rolled down to my hands, and the top four buttons met their according holes for the first time. My neck stayed divorced from the skinny tie everyone else wore, though. Ties were unnecessary. So were high socks, but it was too cold to get away without pulling the thick woolen material up past my knees. I loathed the uniform. The dark grey and navy blue plaid skirt was my worst enemy.

Some people were made for it, though. People like Noah.

I watched from above as he sauntered past down below, unaware of my presence. Watching him, I was once again reminded of the perfect mix of confidence and boredom that carved out his posture; his back was straight in a tall, challenging show of dominance, but boredom lined his slightly slouched shoulders.

Quietly, I whistled. 

Noah's mouth was almost always caught in a sideways smile landing somewhere between amused and smug, as if he held the world in his hands and the lives of those who surrounded him were a black and white film he was forced to watch but secretly enjoyed. 

He stopped walking, that same worn smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth before he even looked up. When he did, he smiled at me, fondness crinkling his eyes, and I was in love. 

Yet to say anything, he climbed atop the same railing I'd used, and jumped, grabbing onto the ledge of the roof with strong, sure fingers. He pulled himself up using only the muscles in his arms. I couldn't have looked away even if I wanted to. 

The orange sky exploding with colour was nothing in comparison to the lopsided grin Noah wore as he sat down next to me and hooked his arms around his knees. 

"Grey," he said by way of greeting.

"Shaw," I said back.

Silence ensued as we looked out over the luxurious campus. Noah was the first to break it. 

"Aren't you cold?"

He was wearing the midnight blue blazer embroidered with the school's crest. Of course he was. It gave his light grey eyes a wash of pale blue beneath his long lashes. Of course it did. 

"No," I lied. 

Noah chuckled, as if he found what I said humourous. He began to shrug out of his jacket. 

"Oh, no. I am not the cheerleader of your testosterone-fueled jock fantasy. Keep your Letterman." 

Noah laughed to himself and shook his head. He didn't pause to slip the blazer back on over his shoulders. Instead, he fully removed one arm and didn't appear to have any intention of stopping until it was all the way off of him and around me. 

"You are the most stubborn girl I have ever had the pleasure of meeting." His words dripped with his British accent. "It's a jacket, not an engagement ring, Mickey." He plopped it down over my shoulders before I could protest further. "Just wear it."

So I did. It was warm from the heat Noah's body constantly radiated (I doubted he even felt the bitter wind) and smelled of smoke and the sea and home. I glared at the horizon and wore a practiced pout, but was internally grateful for the warmth that spread down to my hands when I slipped them into the blazer's sleeves. 

I could feel Noah's eyes on me, an amused lilt to his lips. 

I rolled my eyes and grumbled, "Thanks."

"Sorry, what was that? Didn't quite catch it." He sounded entirely too pleased with himself.

I rolled my eyes again.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" 

"That is a vast miscalculation on your part, Noah Shaw." 

"Oh, we're doing full names now, are we?" There was a smile in his voice. "Well, tell me, Mickey Grey, what is my vast miscalculation?"

"The sky needed my brief attention. Not everything is about you, contrary to popular belief."

When I turned my head to throw a pointed look Noah's way, my breath caught in my throat instead; he was much closer than what I'd accounted for, and it had my heart thrumming loudly in my ears. There were flecks of silver in his eyes I'd never noticed before. I had the sudden urge to paint them. Sure and confident, they held my gaze before dropping to my lips. I felt my heart stutter in my chest. 

"Are you sure about that?" he murmured. I could feel his hot breath on my skin, and I wanted more. Always wanted more.

"Not really," I all but whispered. I no longer knew what we were talking about. I was going to kiss him, and I was going to regret it.


	3. Silver Eyes and Lungs Filled Up with Smoke

"Shaw! Grey! What in the hell are you doing up there?" The shrill voice of Croyden's counselor, Ms. Valentine, echoed between the bungalows, regrettably reaching us on the roof. "Get down!" 

Noah and I shot apart. 

He climbed down with ease. Reluctantly, I followed. Once I was balanced on the railing, with Ms. Valentine's all-seeing eyes boring holes into us, Noah extended his hand for me to grab whilst jumping down. I'd made the same jump on my own hundreds of times before. I reached out and took his hand anyway. 

"Claire," Noah greeted Ms. Valentine.

I didn't know they were on a first name basis. 

Apparently, neither did she. Her blue eyes were cool as she crossed her arms over her chest. "It's Ms. Valentine, Noah."

"Ah, but how long until it's _Mrs._ Valentine?" 

Oh, my God.

"Get back to class," she said through her teeth, though it sounded more like a warning to me. It probably was.

"Well. I think we'll be on our merry way, won't we, Mickey Grey?" Noah looped a strong arm around my shoulders and looked down at me with bright eyes. Directed at Ms. Valentine, he said, "Places to be, people to see. All that jazz." He said it like it was a secret. God, I loved him. 

I tried not to melt beneath his arm as he steered me away from a seething Ms. Valentine.

"Don't let me catch you up there again, Grey," she called after us, threat lacing her sharp words. 

I shot a hand into the air, pointing my index finger and thumb to the sky. "You got it, Claire."

Noah snickered. 

Once the show was over and we were around the corner, I expected him to drop his arm and take a step away, back to the respective distance usually kept between two people walking. He didn't. I didn't comment on it.

"So, my fair lady, where to?" Noah asked with all the casualty in the world.

I took the worn pack of cigarettes I knew him to keep in his blazer out and discarded one as if it were my own. I stuck it between my teeth and shoved the carton back in its pocket, where I felt around for a lighter but came up empty handed. 

"Back pocket," Noah supplied.

I scoffed and muttered, "You're impossible," under my breath, but reached my fingers into the back pocket of Noah's trousers all the same. A sleek black lighter with his name engraved in elegant cursive on the side is what I produced and used to light the cigarette. 

I took a drag and let the steady stream of smoke cloud around us before fleeing with the sudden gust of wind that blew past us. "I should probably get back to class," I said around the cigarette, answering his previous question. "Walker won't be pleased with my absence."

Noah hummed his comprehension. I turned his lighter over in my hand, running the pad of my thumb along the engraving, feeling the letters of his name under my skin. He ducked his head and whispered, "Shouldn't you return that to its rightful place?"

His petal-soft lips brushed the shell of my ear. I shivered. He smiled, the bastard. 

"I hate you," I declared, and slipped the lighter back in his pocket. 

"I love it when you talk dirty to me." 

Beside myself, I cracked a smile, and then we were standing in front of the door to my classroom. Noah removed his arm, and my shoulders felt immediately cold, like I'd lost something. 

I began to take his jacket off, but he stopped me. "Keep it," he said, taking the cigarette out of my mouth and putting it between his lips. My eyes lingered.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off before I got the chance. "Just say thank you, Noah, you're the bestest friend in the whole wide world, and we'll call it square."

"Think that might be pushing it?" But I kept the jacket on, grateful for the warmth it still provided against the harsh wind, and hoped my eyes conveyed my thanks.

He smiled his stupid cheeky smile, said, "See you," and was gone.

So I was I. So, so gone.


	4. If Anybody Asks How We Died

When class was over, Noah was waiting for me outside.

I wasn't expecting him, but there he was, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking as disheveled and as ravishing as ever.

He caught me staring and smiled. Damn.

Someone in front of me, a girl whose name I'd never bothered to remember, said, "Hi, Noah," in a sultry voice. She swayed her tiny hips as she walked by. Noah ignored her. She scoffed and left in a huff.

I eyed her as I approached him. "So. Do you, by chance, have any interest in seeing my new paper collection?"

"Is that some sort of American sexual innuendo I'm not privy to?" Noah pushed himself off the wall and joined me. "Because if so, the answer is yes." Amusement lingered in his eyes, as did it always, and his shirt collar was undone. God, he was gorgeous. Effortlessly beautiful.

It was distracting. Trying and failing to squash the urge to tug on his stupidly endearing loosely-knotted tie and capture him in a bruising kiss, I ignored his remark about sexual innuendos and said, "As of late, my inventory consists of two crumpled-up pieces of paper and a poorly crafted airplane."

"Well. As someone who just so happens to be professionally skilled in the art of paper-plane making, I'll be the judge of this poor craftsmanship."

I bit back a smile and from my messenger bag retrieved the paper airplane that glided onto the surface of my desk in the middle of AP English Lit. by Stacy Miller. Noah took it from me and inspected it with great care, holding it up to the sky and examining it from afar, then bringing it close to his face and scrutinizing it with analytic eyes.

He was mocking me.

"Professionally skilled paper-plane maker, I haven't got all fucking day."

Noah slid a sideways glance my way. "I do not appreciate your foul language," he said. "However, I must admit: this is a pretty shitty plane."

On the wing of the plane, written in Stacy's loopy scrawl, it read _open me _.__ Noah opened it. With the creases of the plane unfolded, he held the wrinkled piece of paper in his hands. Big, bold letters that spelled out _slut_ stared back at him.

He balled up the paper in his hands and threw it to the ground with considerable force.

"You should have taken your jacket back," I said quietly.

"No, fuck that. You shouldn't have things thrown at you and be called a _slut_ because you're wearing my _jacket_." He sounded angrier than I thought he'd be. I didn't think he'd get angry at all. Otherwise, I wouldn't have said anything. "The girls here are so immature, I swear to God."

"Dude." I stopped. He turned to face me, and I punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Deep breaths. Stacy Miller's hated me since the day I got here. I don't care. You shouldn't, either."

Instead of saying anything in response, Noah circled his slender fingers around my arm and led me to the tree we usually sat in the shade of during lunch. Today was too cloudy for shadows, but he let go of my wrist and sat down underneath it anyway. He leaned against the wide trunk of the tall, bare tree, and rested his head back against it, exposing the column of his throat, his Adam's apple.

Tempting.

Very tempting. I sat down and said nothing. He didn't, either.

The quiet that followed wasn't strained or awkward, as it rarely was. It was the kind of quiet that meant something.

After a while of Noah remaining statue-still, I figured he'd fallen asleep, and laid down in the grass, looking up at the white sky. I loved days like these. If it was up to me, I'd spend the rest of my life in the grass, watching the world turn above me.

Out of nowhere, Noah's voice sounded, low and raspy. "What do you think about me?" it said.

I looked over at him. His eyes were still closed, but when I asked, "What do you mean?" he slit them open and stared down at me.

I held his gaze until I couldn't feel my toes and had to look away. The sky wasn't nearly as beautiful.

"I mean, what do you think about me?"

"Ohhh, now I understand. Thank you for elaborating."

"I'm serious, Mickey." He sounded serious. He often sounded serious, no matter the context, but somehow, this was different.

"Okay." I laced my fingers behind my head, still not looking at him. "I think you're arrogant." He scoffed. "But smart. Irritating, but charming."

"This is not what I meant," he said, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Maybe if I had more to go on than 'what do you think about me', I could give you a more detailed answer."

"I mean, like, personally, what do you think of me? Intimately."

At that, I propped myself up on my elbows to look at him. "What does _that_ mean?"

Noah met my eyes but didn't say anything. He was so frustrating. I dropped back down to the grass.

"I don't know what you're asking me, but you obviously can't be that bad, or I wouldn't spend so much time with you." I paused. "Though, that could work both ways; you could be worse because I like you. I don't have the best judge of character."

He chuckled.

"Does that sufficiently answer your question?"

"Yeah."

I couldn't tell if it really had or not, though. "What about me?" I asked.

"Hm?"

"What do you think about me?"

Noah was quiet. Maybe I didn't want to know. _Never mind_ was on the tip of my tongue, but before I could voice it, he spoke. "Obliviously ignorant. Careless, reckless. Most adult's nightmares, really."

"Oh, gee, thanks," I deadpanned. "Glad I asked."

Then, right into my words, he said, "Brave. Almost like you don't care whether you get caught or run free, live or die. I envy that about you."

I mock-gasped. " _Noah Shaw_ envies _me_? Wow. This must be what heaven feels like."

"Shut up. I wasn't done."

"Well, please, _do_ continue showering me with compliments."

"Brilliant. Smarter than you let on, and above all the petty bullshit the other girls around here pull." I scoffed my agreement. "And fit, of course. Really, bloody fit."

Ignoring the whole brilliant bit, I drew my eyebrows together in confusion. "What the hell is 'bloody fit'?"

I didn't need to look at him to know he was smiling. "Means hot," he answered. "Beautiful."

 _Beautiful_. The word caught in my throat.

I needed a cigarette.

I wanted to know what prompted this conversation, what caused Noah to ask me what I thought of him, but I didn't know how to form the words. In the end, I managed a weak, "Don't go getting all soft on me, Shaw."

I heard the tell-tale snick of a lighter and when Noah spoke, his words were cigarette-formed. "Didn't know it was soft to call a beautiful girl beautiful."

How did he just _say_ things like that? Like we were something out of a romance film aimed at teenage girls with an influx of hormones?

I didn't know what to say. So I propped myself up on one elbow, plucked the cigarette out from between his fingers, and took a long, greedy drag. I handed it back to him and resumed my position in the grass.

As the minutes ticked by, my mind went from racing to oddly quiet. With Noah leaning against our tree at my feet, smoke wafting over, and the open, limitless sky above me, I felt at ease, like nothing could be better.

I don't know how long we stayed like that, sitting together, just... being, but when Noah spoke, it brought me back down to earth, as if I'd floated away in the time we spent silent.

"What would you do if I died today?" he asked.

Random, but I didn't even have to think about the answer.

"I'd die tomorrow."


	5. You Find Out Everything's Gone Wrong

I shouldn't have stolen the car.

I shouldn't have been where I was at all, but I definitely shouldn't have stolen the car.

"Ms. Grey, I'm not going to ask you again. How do you know Sam Delano?" The detective had already asked three times. He had green eyes and short hair. He would've been cute had he not been interrogating me.

My head was throbbing and dull pain zinged under my left cheekbone. I tasted blood on my tongue. I had no idea who Sam Delano was.

"Do you have a tissue or something? Perhaps a damp paper towel? My face appears to be bleeding," I said.

The detective's expression remained unchanging.

I sighed loudly.

He stared.

"What did you say your name was?"

The man pursed his lips and answered, "Clark," in a blank voice.

I sat up in the uncomfortable chair. "Well, Detective _Clark _,__ allow me to brief you on my knowledge of this Sam person; I _have_ no knowledge of him because _I don't know who he is_. I didn't even know his name before you said it." Detective Clark looked at me like he didn't believe a single word that came out of my mouth. I suppose I wasn't as convincing as I could have been. "Look. I admit to stealing the car, _fine_. I had no idea it was _already_ stolen, nevertheless by a drug dealer." There. "If I did, do you really think I would have stolen it? Aren't you supposed to be a detective?"

Damn. So close.

Detective Clark dismissed my smartass remark in favour of asking, "Would you then care to explain just how it is you know he's a drug dealer?"

I sighed heavily and leaned back in my seat, crossing my arms. "The car." The detective raised inquiring eyebrows at me. Some detective. "Seriously? The miniature-sized baggies in the console? The overwhelming smell of coke and fresh-off-the-press cash? It's not rocket science, detective."

"Playing Sherlock must be fun."

"Oh, it is. You should try it some time."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "So. You steal a car. You notice small bags and the aroma of drugs and money. From this, you gather you've stolen the car of a drug dealer. You continue to steal the car."

"Brava." It was then that the enormity of the situation I was in started to sink in. There was a possibility I was looking at time, which was something I wouldn't have minded avoiding. Fully. Time to engage in some damage control.

"I don't steal cars often, okay? I don't have a procedure. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I stole a car. I saw the baggies. Unfinalised cocaine is a hard smell to miss, especially when it's been absorbed by leather interior. Money also has a distinct smell, though that was more of a guess. But it's a nice car. You need a few zeros to afford a thing like that.

"It was just supposed to be a joy ride. I had no intention of keeping the thing. I don't know who Sam Delano is or what you're looking for, but I can't help you."

The weight of Detective Clark's gaze was heavy, and I hoped he heard the truth to my words.

"That's a nice story and all—" Damn. "—but here's what I think: you're at the bottom of Delano's food chain. There are the big guys, the ones with the guns who do the heavy lifting, the beating, the killing, and then there's you. You do the dirty work that flies by undetected. The car was abandoned a few days ago, but maybe it's become something of use again. Since there was nothing tying it to Delano until this morning, he ordered you to fetch it for him. You, the young, pretty piece of trash who can probably weasel her way out of anything."

My heart raced with the thought of a jury believing the detective's accusations. I darted my tongue out to catch the bit of blood I felt on my bottom lip.

I saw Clark's eyes drop to track the motion. _You, the young, pretty piece of trash who can probably weasel her way out of anything._

I wondered if this was procedure. Maybe he believed me, but had to ring me out for every last drop of information he could gather anyway. If this was him trying to scare me into confessing something as a last resort, then there was a chance I might be let off the hook.

"I believe I get a phone call."

His jaw clenched. "Phone's right here." He nudged the base of an old phone in my direction.

I picked it up and dialed the seven numbers I had committed to memory.

 _Pick up, pick up, pick up_ , I silently chanted. It was four in the morning. There was a pretty stellar chance I would be met with the automated woman telling me to leave a voice message.

The fifth ring was cut short. "Hello?" Noah's sleep-riddled voice answered.


	6. If I Can't Have You, I Want This Life Alone

I saw Noah before he saw me. He had his back to me, and I noted the tension knotting his spine.

Be it that Detective Clark believed me or that he had those wandering green eyes, he let me go. I could have screamed with relief. I didn't.

On my way to meet Noah, I passed the officer that arrested me. _Bossio _,__ his name plate read in gold lettering. Looking at him now, under the fluorescent light fixtures overhead, it was crystal clear I shouldn't have fought being brought in. I shouldn't have run from a man who was probably in his late twenties, stood taller than six feet, and looked to weigh over two-hundred pounds. Not my best move.

And I had the bruised cheek and split lip to prove it.

I also shouldn't have said anything as I walked by. The smartest thing to do would've been to duck my head and grab Noah and leave without a word.

"Yo, officer." The cop turned around. "Next time you get the urge to make colours, might I recommend some paint and a nice, blank canvas instead of my face."

He pressed his lips together in a tight line and kept walking.

"Nice to meet you!" I called after him.

Noah must have heard my voice because when I turned back around, he was facing me, and our eyes met. I ditched the guard that was following me out at the door and walked up to Noah. He looked down at me, and the unfamiliarity of the stern set to the frame of his face had me startled. I'd never seen his eyes so dark. His eyebrows were only slightly furrowed, accented by the shallow crease making itself known on his forehead, but the hard line of his jaw clenched strongly, causing his muscles to pop.

I was waiting for him to yell at me, to tell me how stupid I was, what was I thinking? But he didn't.

"Noah?"

He didn't say a word. He didn't move a muscle.

"...Okaaay. I'm going to go now. Outside. Feel free to stay here, mister statue-man." I walked around him and left.

The ground was damp and the early morning air was chilly, but I wasn't cold. I'd gotten ten steps when I heard the station's door open and close behind me and Noah's shoes on the pavement. He'd always had longer legs than mine, a wider stride, but usually, he paced himself. Now, he sped right past me, unlocked his car and ducked into the driver's seat.

I hesitated. This was not a side of Noah I'd seen before. It was like he was quietly furious, seething beneath his skin, and I didn't know how to deal with that, but I could have ended up with bigger problems, like whether or not my cellmate was an ax murderer that would kill me in my sleep. So. I got in the car.

The engine was already running, and before I even had the door all the way shut, he was backing out of the parking spot and speeding off. He kept his eyes on the road ahead of him and his grip on the steering wheel white-knuckled.

A minute passed.

Two.

____Six._ _ _ _

"Sooo. Crazy night. Thanks for coming to get me. You're a champ, you are. Top-notch best friend. My brother would've let me walk home. And then killed me once I got there."

"Stop," Noah said through his teeth. "Just stop, Mickey. This isn't funny. You were _arrested_. You could've ended up in _jail_."

"Oh, I didn't know that. Please, tell me more."

"Will you cut the fucking bullshit," he hollered. He didn't scream, didn't turn red in the face and pop the veins in his neck and temples. He hollered. His voice was deep and loud and his fingers clenched even tighter around the steering wheel as he stepped on the gas. Noah had never hollered at me before, and I was finding it to be the scariest part of my day, including getting whacked in the cheek with the elbow of a built cop and sitting in an interrogation room with the threat of jail looming over my head.

"Fuck, I know I said you were reckless, but what the fuck did you do to land a seat across from a fucking _detective_?" He was lighting a cigarette with his hands and driving with his knee, which he only ever did when he was feeling restless.

"If I tell you, will you stop shouting at me?"

He didn't reply.

I sighed heavily and ran a hand through my tangled hair. The tall, black trees lining either side of the road blurred past us as Noah drove. Fast.

"I stole a stolen car linked to an underground drug dealer. Probably someone in the mafia or something." Before he got the chance to say anything, I rushed to continue. "I don't know what the fuck I was thinking, so don't even fucking ask. I know I was arrested, I know I could have ended up in jail. Fuck, I talked to a detective who thought I was conspiring with his suspect. I _know_ it was stupid, Noah, I don't need the fucking lecture. You're my friend, not my brother; you're supposed to bail me out and drive me home and walk me to class at school on Monday. Why are you acting like I personally let the air out of your tires?"

He looked through the windshield as if I wasn't even there.

"Fine. Be that way. I don't give a fuck."

Except I did.

Looking out the window made my head ache, so I watched the green numbers of the digital clock on the dashboard tick the time away instead. It took seven agonizingly slow, tormentingly silent minutes for Noah to pull up in front of my shitty house. He cut the engine and killed the lights, his face a mask illuminated only by the soft glow of a dim streetlight on the opposing side of where we sat. And sat and sat.

"Well, I'll—"

"What if it wasn't the police who caught you?" Noah asked.

"What—"

"If you really did steal a car that belongs to drug dealers, what if they were the ones who found you instead of the police? What if they thought you were a narc or something, and beat you to death, or just straight up shot you?"

"You've been watching Law & Order again, haven't you?"

Why, why, _why_ would I say that? Was I really _that_ incapable of being serious?

Noah closed his eyes and whispered, "I couldn't live without you. You can't put yourself in situations like this. Stealing liquor from the gas station is one thing, getting mixed up with the police and drug dealers is entirely another. Just—" He paused, opened his eyes, and looked at me. "Promise me you won't do this kind of shit again. Please."

I blinked.

_I couldn't live without you._

I looked at him without saying anything for too long. I was staring, I was definitely staring.

_I couldn't live without you._

I had needles in my throat. I had no idea what to say.

_I couldn't live without you._

"Promise," I whispered, and then shot out of the car like lightning before I did something stupid, like tell him I loved him.

I didn't watch him drive away from my bedroom window.


	7. I Will Stand Here and Burn in My Skin

Monday morning lunch hour found Noah and I beneath our tree again. We were laying on our backs next to each other in the grass, legs extended with our feet propped up against the trunk of the tree. I had one of Noah's earbuds in my right ear, and he had the other one in his left. _All Through the Night_ by Sleeping At Last played while we ate the Skittles I brought and smoked his cigarettes like nothing ever happened.

But something did happen.

So I nudged his foot with with the toe of my shoe. "Hey."

He paused the song and looked over at me. "Hey."

"I'm sorry about the other night," I said sincerely. "I have no intention of doing anything like that again."

I looked up when I spoke, afraid my resolve would crumble under the scrutiny of Noah's gaze. The tree's branches directly above us were bare, and I liked it that way, the same way I liked feeling like a skeleton sitting on the roof and watching the sun rise. Naked branches twisting together and reaching for the sky for everyone to see, it made the tree look fearless, like it wasn't scared of revealing it's true form, of what was underneath the leaves of summer. Contrary to what the students of Croyden thought, I was hiding, too. I was hiding behind sarcastic comments and middle fingers to Stacy Miller and her posse of airheads, behind cigarettes and stolen cars. 

I didn't know how much longer I could do it.

I turned my head to look at Noah, and he was close again, close like how he'd been Friday morning when Ms. Valentine appeared out of nowhere. He didn't respond to what I'd said, but that was okay. I didn't want him to. I just wanted him to know I wouldn't break my promise. He had my word.

When I met his eyes, there was a spark of something I didn't recognize reflected in them, and it looked like he was going to say something. He didn't. He turned his head away, and I thought, maybe that's enough. Maybe he doesn't have to say anything.

I knew I loved him, that Noah Shaw was inadvertently holding my heart in his hands, but I didn't know it was the kind of love that runs oceans deep. And it didn't hit me until then, until that very moment, looking at his profile, watching his eyelashes as he blinked slowly, thinking that he didn't even need to say anything for it to be enough for me, that all he had to do was exist and I'd be fine, just how deeply in love with him I was, and it scared the shit out of me.

The bell rang.

Noah sighed and removed his legs from the tree, got to his feet and didn't bother brushing off his dusty trousers. "Let's go, Mick."

I couldn't move.

"Mickey."

"Yes. Yep, going," I said unevenly. I rolled over and got up. Orange sparks danced across my field of vision. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Noah was looking at me, confused. "You okay?"

"Yep," I said again. The opposite of convincing. I couldn't meet his eyes. "Peachy."

I met his eyes.

I held his stare until my heart began to beat to an erratic tune. Maybe it was the tree— _our_ tree—it's exposed limbs hanging above us. Maybe it was the way Noah's eyes looked in the sunlight that slanted in through the clouds. It could have been anything, really, that shot a stroke of confidence through my veins.

"Noah, I—"

It started to rain.

It started to _pour_. The sun ducked back behind the clouds, casting the campus in a dreary absence of light, and students ran for cover, holding their jackets and books over their heads to keep from getting wet. I let the rain soak through my hair, my shirt. I felt it in my shoes, between my toes. I didn't move.

Neither did Noah. He was standing ten feet away from me. Why didn't he move? Why didn't he flee indoors like everyone else? He just stood there, shirt sticking to his shoulders and the tips of his hair dripping diamonds.

Two minutes later, the rain stopped, and the moment was broken.

I didn't know what that was—it didn't seem like enough to be considered anything, but it was definitely something—but I reached down for my wet bag (great) and jogged over. The wind was unabashed in its billowing, dirty leaves blowing past us and trees straining against its force. "Come on!" I said over the howl of it, squinting my eyes. "Let's go, it could start back up again at any second!"

I started to run off in the direction of my next class, but was stopped by Noah's hand on my arm. He turned me around and pulled me to him. I didn't have time to react before his mouth was on mine.

It wasn't shy or awkward, like how the stereotypical doorstep kiss at the end of a first date can be, but it wasn't forceful, either. It was sure, like Noah, but searching. Searching for me, I suppose, for my response. Noah was confident, but was he confident in me? Could he really not know, after all this time, how badly I wanted him? That it was like a constant itch under my skin every time I was near him, and even when I wasn't? That I didn't just want him anymore, I _craved_ him?

I dropped my bag to the ground and leaned into it, snaking my arms around his neck. In turn, his hands found my waist and pulled me even closer to him. He pressed his body against mine as he deepened the kiss, ran his tongue along my lip. I turned us around, and he backed me up against the tree, skimmed his fingers beneath the bottom of my shirt.

The wind was freezing, especially against my wet skin, but Noah's touch was searing, and I wanted more. I ran my hands through his hair, over his shoulders, down his chest. I wanted his skin under my fingertips for the rest of my life. I lightly bit down on his bottom lip. His smile broke the kiss and he looked at me.

He was so close, I could feel his scent in my veins. The water clinging to his hair dripped down on me, and he pressed his forehead to mine. I couldn't bite back my smile, even with the best of efforts.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that," he murmured, breath warm on my skin, words sinking into the cracks of my lips.

"Try me, Shaw."

He smiled a real, beautiful smile, teeth sparkling and eyes crinkling, and he kissed me again, once on the lips.

I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I was so, so in love with him.

So I did.

 

**—Fin—**

**Author's Note:**

> The songs that inspired the titles of each chapter:  
> i. Latch by Sam Smith  
> ii. Winter Winds by Mumford & Sons  
> iii. Five Minutes to Midnight by Boys Like Girls (though it's brown eyes, not silver)  
> iv. Suicide by James Arthur  
> v. Robbers by The 1975  
> vi. Leave Your Lover by Sam Smith  
> vii. Burn by Ray LaMontagne
> 
> If the writing group interests you, here are the links again:  
> [harrybirthdaytoya](http://harrybirthdaytoya.tumblr.com/)  
> [writewithmesohappily](http://writewithmesohappily.tumblr.com/)  
> (If you have any questions, she is seriously the sweetest girl.)  
> Side note: Submitting your finished writing isn't obligatory in the slightest—you can be as anonymous as you'd like, I just figured I should get the ball rolling on my ao3's published works.
> 
> [Michelle Hodkin's tumblr](http://michellehodkin.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed! ♡♡♡ ******


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